


Unspoken

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M, non-sexual pet play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5684158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Blackwood is in these rooms, he is 'pet'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> From clemintinestarling's prompt asking for some petplay Blackwood, curled at the foot of the bed.

Whatever else he is outside of these rooms, Blackwood is one thing, and on thing only, within.

Pet. 

Coward understands, he thinks, a little. Something about releasing responsibilities and being granted a level of affection no one would dare offer to 'Lord Blackwood'. Something like that. 

But for Coward, it is something more wordless, something about the way Blackwood will look up at him from the floor, with this fine thread of wary hope, something about the quiet, still quality of his body as he rests at Coward's feet, something about the tiny, faint smile that he can't seem to stop when Coward praises him. It's a fragile thing, tentatively offered, and always on the edge of being revoked, and Coward cherishes it. Those softer moments that only he is allowed to see - those, he is finding he needs as badly as Blackwood. 

Those are _theirs_ , and he is developing a fierce protectiveness that leaks, just the slightest bit, into their everyday exchanges. The first time he stopped Blackwood, hand firm on his arm, from going off without an umbrella, when Blackwood had turned to him with a rising, astonished anger, he'd heard the others step back, heard their caught breaths, their fear. "It's going to rain," he'd said, mildly, a tone he usually reserved for private moments. Blackwood had stilled, stared at him for a moment, a with a raised eyebrow, taken the umbrella. Coward had touched the back of his hand, and the unspoken 'Good boy' was clear enough. 

But when they are alone, when they are here, Blackwood is the one that does not speak. 

Oh, he can, it is allowed, but for the most part, he is silent, expressing himself, when needed, with huffs and hums and pleading looks and raised eyebrows and cocked heads. There is no mistaking what he wants, most of the time, and most of the time, Coward is indulgent, spoils him, like he would any other pampered house pet. The few occasions that he's had to be sterner, it's clear to them both that it's really only in jest, and he's hard put to keep from laughing outright when Blackwood nuzzles a book out of Coward's hands, in a none too subtle bid for attention. 

Mischief sits surprisingly well on Blackwood's face. 

He's more subtle now, though, despite the temptation of the book sitting on Coward's lap, perhaps because Coward is reading to him, Blackwood curled by his feet, body pressed against Coward's leg, warm and heavy. He tips his head down, turns into Coward's knee, and Coward drops a hand to his head, threads his fingers through Blackwood's hair. They stay like that, quiet, for some time. 

When the clock chimes, again, the hour late, Coward glances down, Blackwood dowsing against him. He'll stay tonight, he thinks. It's not something he can do too often - even servants that fear talk, and it will be noticed and gossiped about if he is not in his own bed frequently. Which is a shame, really, considering how lovely Blackwood can be, at night. 

They don't have sex, mind you. Not that they don't ever, but not nights like this. This sort of attitude from Blackwood isn't suited to that, feels sullied, somehow, by anything more than mildly heated kissing and ... well, there's no other good word for it, cuddling. No, nights like this, Coward has the full span of the bed to himself, to sprawl and shift to his heart's content, Blackwood curled at the foot of the bed, a steady heat to warm his chilled toes against, a guard against whatever might walk the night. 

It's a comfort to them both, he thinks, meeting the gleam of Blackwood's eyes in the darkened room, that protectiveness goes both ways.


End file.
